Mutlitasking
by Willie The Plaid Jacket
Summary: It was too much information for John's brain to process all at once, so he decided to focus purely on one aspect, the rest be damned. [Johnlock PWP]


It was too much information for John's brain to process all at once, so he decided to focus purely on one aspect, the rest be damned. Kissing Sherlock was the one that won out. Forget about surroundings, forget about the boiling kettle, forget about the terrifyingly new experience that was a lust filled consulting detective; soft, warm, pliant lips on his and the odd flick of tongue was all John could comprehend.

It wasn't a savage kiss, but it was far from innocent, too. It was open and wet and both men were huffing breaths through their noses, unwilling to pull away, sometimes an unintentional noise of contentedness getting caught on an exhale.

Somewhere amongst all the stuff that John's brain was storing but not sorting through was the information that Sherlock's hands were smoothing all over John's torso in a downwards increment. He was cataloguing the texture of John's t-shirt across his chest. He was feeling the swell of John's ribs and the dip of his waist. He was gliding his hands horizontally around John's middle so that the tips of his fingers met in the indent of John's spine before bringing them back around so that his thumbs rested over the well of his bell-button.

Eventually, Sherlock's hands reached the hem of the t-shirt and in one swift movement slid underneath, ran across bear skin from hip, along John's side and all the way to the end of his arms, until the garment was removed.

This act of undressing required John to momentarily pull away from the mentally-consuming kiss and allowed him to acknowledge that they had been steadily moving from the Kitchen towards Sherlock's bedroom.

A faint protest in the far reaches of John's mind warned that perhaps this was progressing somewhat quickly, but Sherlock's lips were on his again before he could agree with or dismiss the notion.

When his back hit the wall by Sherlock's bed, John was once again dislodged from Sherlock's mouth and made aware of the goings on around him. Reality sank in. They were in a bedroom, after a heavy bout of snogging, and John was minus some clothing. It didn't take a genius to realise where this was headed. But John didn't baulk. He wanted more. He'd wanted the man in front of him for too long to get cold feet when he was finally given permission to have him.

John placed his hands on Sherlock's hips and slid a thigh between the other man's legs. The height difference made it a little awkward and meant that John's hip was what came into contact with Sherlock's crotch, but the effect was the same.

'John', Sherlock groaned and leant back in as if to continue kissing, but instead stopped short and ran his left hand down John's chest to the button of his jeans before unclasping and unzipping, and slipped his hand into both trousers and pants and stroked John's waiting erection.

John couldn't hold back the breathy 'Ahhhh' that escaped at the touch. He was desperate already. He wanted to come. He wanted Sherlock to come. He wanted rough and primal and now. There would be other times later on in which to take it slowly, to explore and taste and love. But they had waited too long already. The insistent hardness at his hip and the almost imperceptible search for friction back and forth of Sherlock's hips told John that Sherlock was in much the same position.

He made an executive decision and pushed Sherlock back by the shoulders until his legs hit the bed and he fell backwards on to it. John knelt astride the wide-eyed detective and reached down to undo the other man's trousers, which upon doing he pulled down, along with his underwear, just far enough that his erection was free. John then repeated the action on himself and lay down on top of his as-of-now lover and began rolling his hips whilst resuming their interrupted kiss.

They moaned. Loudly.

They weren't quite aligned, there wasn't much lubrication beyond the small amount of sweat and pre-ejaculate that they had excreted, and their position on the bed, with Sherlock's legs still hanging over the edge, meant that John was doing most of the work.

But it was perfect.

It was heated and electric and oh so fucking wonderful. Each movement of their bodies ratcheted up the building pleasure and made their vocalisations more needy.

They could feel the end approaching, so John propped himself up onto one elbow and with the other hand reached down to grasp both of them together. Sherlock, needing more leverage, clung onto John's buttocks and shoved upwards with all his might.

It only took a few more strokes and thrusts before Sherlock arched his neck and groaned in ecstasy, his come spreading between their rubbing chests.

John was short to follow. He mashed his face into Sherlock's shoulder and gasped out a series of cries.

After an age, when their shuddering bodies came to a still and their breathing slowed to a normal pace, John lifted himself up enough to look at Sherlock, whose hands were still resting on John's bottom.

Before John could say anything, Sherlock leant up and kissed away the thought.

Everything that had just transpired, everything he felt, emotionally and physically, it was too much information for John's brain to process all at once, so he decided to focus purely on one aspect, the rest be damned. Kissing Sherlock was the one that won out


End file.
